


Stroking the Ivories

by redtailedhawk



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: AU, M/M, Piano, Rating will go up, other tags will be added later - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 01:46:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5356322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtailedhawk/pseuds/redtailedhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick is a famed concert pianist, who has been absent from Earth for over a decade. His grandson Morty is an aspiring piano student with promise and talent, who's idolized Rick for years. Rick suddenly returns, and is roped into giving Morty lessons. Morty learns that his grandfather isn't quite who he thought he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stroking the Ivories

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize in advance for the pretentious, overworked, nerdy tone of this fic. I've tried to include links or footnotes whenever I reference specific pieces or classical music things. I do have plans for future chapters, and there will be smut. Eventually. If you have any critiques or suggestions, let me know in the comments! Hope you can find at least a bit of enjoyment in it. You can find me on tumblr at the-waay-the-news-goes.tumblr.com. sorry if my footnotes are a little wonky, I wrote them at 4 am and wasn't totally coherent.

Morty’s heart thumped inside his chest as he sat inside the bustling concert hall, sending shivers of anxiety through his body.  He raised two fingers to his neck and felt his pulse.  Sure enough, it was throbbing rapidly, and showed no sign of stopping.  He wasn’t nervous—no, he was terrified.

Normally, nights like these were a highlight of his drab teenage experience. Despite the teasing he endured for it in school, classical music was Morty’s passion, and he cherished the opportunity he had every few months to go to a concert in the city. It wasn’t just about the music, really. He loved walking around Columbus Circle and Midtown in the evening, admiring the bright string lights wrapped around the trees.  There was a liveliness and warmth to it all, even in the winter.  The Lincoln Center[1] plaza felt particularly welcoming;  three buildings flanked the main square, their vast arches and columns illuminated by incandescent light. The fountain in the center of the square was lit from below, and Morty would often linger by it to watch it send jets of water tens of feet into the air. He could feel the promise of music in the air—he knew that soon, he would enter the concert hall and hear the works of his favorite composers, from Mozart and Beethoven to Ravel and Rachmaninoff.

Unfortunately, none of these lovely details registered in Morty’s mind that night. When Beth had woken him up that morning and told him that she had a surprise for him, that he would be going to a special concert that night, he hadn’t expected… _this._

He looked down at the wrinkled program in his lap. He’d read it about fifty times and still couldn’t believe what was written there.

_Tonight, Rick Sanchez performs Rachmaninoff’s third piano concerto with the New York Philharmonic, Valery Gergiev conducting. Sanchez, known throughout the classical world for his fiery interpretations and incredible virtuosity, has returned after a long absence for a worldwide tour…while his past performances have been tinged with eccentricity, their brilliance has been unmatched in recent years…_

Rick Sanchez. Morty found it hard to believe that this man—this _virtuoso_ —could be his own grandfather.  Even though the 14 year-old had never met Rick personally, his presence was embedded deeply in Morty’s way of life. The boy started piano lessons when he was six—Beth had insisted on it.   _Don’t be silly, Jerry, six isn’t too young_ ,she chided. _Summer started violin lessons when she was five, and she’s doing fine! My whole side of the family is musical, and I don’t plan on wasting Morty’s potential just because you can’t appreciate classical music, you idiot._

For two years, Morty’s piano lessons went by with relative ease. He picked it up quickly and impressed his teacher at times, but he never found it to be particularly interesting, either. It was something he did because his mother wanted him to—he almost always daydreamed while he practiced, and sometimes hid a book on his lap while he played his right or left hand separately.

All of that changed on his eighth birthday, when Beth gave him a CD set of Chopin’s complete works, performed by Rick.  _Morty, your grandfather is one of the most famous pianists in the world,_ she explained. _If you listen to these recordings, you’ll see why. I’m sure that one day you’ll get to meet him…and maybe even learn from him._

Over the course of several months, Morty was swept away—first by the lovely, lilting melodies of the nocturnes and waltzes, and then by the virtuosity and pathos of the ballades, the grandeur of the concertos. He would sit alone in his room, engrossed by the golden tone that his grandfather seemed to pull from every note that he played. At one moment, the music would be dripping with delicious, shining legato, lingering in Morty’s ears and tugging at his heart—and the next it would burst into flames, churning up a storm of notes that were passionate, yet incredibly precise. While listening, Morty often stared at the photo of his grandfather on the cover of the CD set. It showed a sullen, lanky man with wild blue-gray hair leaning against a piano.  His gaze was sharp and unflinching, staring directly into the camera.  Morty couldn’t help but wonder how a man with such threatening eyes could produce such gentle music.

And he kept wondering. Maybe Rick would look softer in another photograph—maybe some of his tenderness would be revealed in a smile, or in a subtle set of creases around his eyes.  But soon enough, he found out that there weren’t that many non-professional photos of Rick lying around. Beth had smiled sadly when Morty first asked about it. _Oh, Morty,_ she sighed. _Rick was never that fond of family pictures…I’ll look around, but don’t be too disappointed if I can’t find any. I wish there were more, myself…_

She found a few, but none of them held the expression that Morty was searching for. So instead--as young children tend to do--he used his imagination.

As he listened, he imagined Rick’s expression melting with sensitivity as he played the slow movement of Chopin’s second concerto.[2] He thought about how intense and powerful Rick would look while playing the end of the second ballade[3], his whole body engaged and in motion.  Morty found that he enjoyed the music even more when he saw Rick in his mind’s eye. Sometimes he thought that he would give up on videogames for a year if it meant that he could see Rick play just once.

And if those imaginings changed a little bit as Morty aged—if he pictured Rick’s lips parting slightly as his long fingers delicately pressed into the keys, or if he saw Rick with flushed cheeks and mussed hair bowing confidently after a performance—well, then he could learn to deal with it. He told himself that it didn’t mean anything—that he had just spent too much time practicing and listening to Rick’s playing, and it wasn’t his fault if his libido acted up in weird ways. He _was_ a teenage boy, after all. Practically anything could make his dick hard.

But for Morty, the main consequence of this obsession was a newfound interest in his own playing. Rick’s playing had shown him what piano could be, if one excelled at it. He, too, wanted to coax a singing tone from the instrument, and feel the satisfaction of perfectly executing a difficult passage.

So he practiced. And practiced. He labored at the piano for hours at a time, even without the help of his mother’s nagging. Often any potential friends he had would hear the same refrain if they wanted to hang out: “Oh geez, I-I’m really sorry, but I just gotta practice, y-y’know…”

Morty was sixteen now, and although he didn’t have all that many friends, but he sure had more than a few awards and medals on his shelf at home.  He’d progressed from local competitions to state and national ones, and in the process he found that his devotion truly paid off.  Since his countless hours of practice had driven his pieces deep into his muscle memory, he could almost always execute them with technical perfection—no matter how nervous he was.  Although he was too timid to boast about them, and knew he still had much to learn, Morty couldn’t help but feel proud of his accomplishments. A few weeks before he had passed the audition for Juilliard’s precollege program[4], and was looking forward to starting next year. Perhaps he would make some friends there…and perhaps, just maybe, Rick would be proud of him. Because part of Morty, buried deep inside his core, wanted that desperately—to be recognized by his grandfather.  To gain the approval of the man who had lit the fire of inspiration within him, and kept it burning.

These were the emotions fueling Morty’s jitters as the hall darkened and the audience and orchestra waited for Rick Sanchez to walk onstage.  Excitement, because he would finally hear Rick’s brilliant playing. Apprehension, because he couldn’t predict how Rick would react to his accomplishments. And maybe a hint of something else, too. Something to do with his search for Rick’s smile, and the fantasies he’d tried to suppress—the dreams of deft fingers, careless confidence, unruly blue hair.

The concertmaster walked on. Applause, tuning.[5] Morty swallowed.

Shouts of excitement and applause erupted as Rick Sanchez walked onstage, followed by the conductor. Morty immediately noticed that Rick looked older than in the photos he’d seen; his hair was thinner, his skin grayer, more worn. But he strode to the piano with incredible defiance and assuredness, showing no sign that this concert could possibly be more significant for him than usual. The audience continued to applaud wildly as he bowed with a flourish—and as he sat at the piano and nodded at the conductor, the whole crowd stilled and waited with bated breath for him to begin.

The truth is, Rachmaninoff’s third piano concerto [6]is both legendary and infamous. It’s considered one of the most challenging piano pieces ever written, in all aspects: stamina, technique, and musicality. It is an Everest which almost every concert pianist attempts to conquer at some point in their career. No one was surprised that Rick Sanchez would use it to kick off his world tour, but some critics had whispered doubts, speculated that maybe Sanchez had lost his spark after so many years. Indeed, the audience was curious to see if Rick could still pull it off with the same virtuosity that he’d been known for before his absence.

But those doubts were swept away only a few minutes into the first movement. Rick played with clarity, passion, power, and confidence. Morty forgot his anxiety. He listened with rapt attention as Rick transitioned from tender, singing melodies to intense, cascading passages with the utmost ease. It was everything he had hoped for and expected, and he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from Rick as his hands danced effortlessly across the keyboard.

But something nagged at the back of Morty’s mind. Even in the most passionate sections of the concerto, Rick’s expression remained the same. It was intense and focused—but never enraptured or joyful.  He sat up straight with his shoulders relaxed; hardly breaking a sweat as his hands moved back and forth, his fingers a blur. He seemed almost…indifferent.

Still, Morty was deeply engrossed in the music, and it flew by swiftly.  Soon it was hurtling towards the finale of the third movement.  His heart was racing. This was the moment that everyone was waiting for—the final climax.[7] The piano and strings marched in sync, ominously, rising and building to an intense forte, climbing higher and higher—crashing down like waves against a cliff face, only to race even faster, hurtling forward ( _Morty sat up and gasped, expectant_ ) until the orchestra was suddenly whipped away, letting Rick smash into the final chords and then cascade down into a triumphant repetition of the main theme.

Morty’s face was flushed, his pulse beating wildly. His whole body yearned, ached—Rick had captured him completely, and he was lost. Right before Rick flew into the final torrent of octaves, Morty glimpsed a flash of joy in his eyes, and his lips parted slightly—just as Morty had imagined so many times.

Then, it was all over. Deafening roars of applause engulfed the hall, and he stood up on shaky legs to join the standing ovation.

* * *

 

Morty had gotten lucky. He’d managed to sneak backstage during intermission, emboldened by some leftover giddiness from the performance. He’d planned on introducing himself, maybe getting Rick’s autograph. But as he approached the dressing room, he heard people arguing. Was that…his mother? _What is she doing here?_ He slipped closer and pressed against the wall, listening.

A rough, stuttering voice. “Beth, sweetie, y-you know it’d be f-fucking fine if you let me sta—euuuurp —stay over for a few months, it’s not th-that long—””

“Dad, we agreed. If I let you live with us while you’re here, you have to give Morty lessons. He looks up to you, you know.”

Morty heard glasses clinking, something being poured. “J-jesus fucking christ, Beth, y-you know I don’t take students anymore—”

His mom sighed with exasperation. “Well, _Dad_ , I don’t take freeloaders in my own home. Even if they _are_ long-lost fathers.  You owe at least _something_ to this family, after all this time…”

A tense pause. “Uuu—errrup—gh, fine, fine, Beth, if you want me to teach him so badly, I-I-I’ll do it. J-just don’t expect me to coddle the little shit. Y-y-you know me, my methods, and I-I won’t go easy on him if he, if he’s gonna learn something.”

There was another silence and more sloshing noises. Morty frowned a little. _Geez. How could he be drinking so much?..._

“Th-though I gotta, I gotta say, Beth. He’s got a pretty strong found—euurrrp—foundation, to build on. I-I-I listened to some of his recordings that you sent, and—”

Morty’s eyes widened and he burst angrily into the room, abandoning any sense of self-preservation.

“MOM! W-W-WHY, WHY WOULD YOU SHOW HIM THAT, Y-YOU DIDN’T EVEN T-T-TELL ME ANYTHI—”

He stopped short suddenly, all his anxiety flooding back at once as he stared at Rick. A blush crept into his cheeks as he looked at his grandfather, who was sprawled in an armchair with empty shot glasses scattered on the table nearby. His feet were propped up idly on a piano bench, and Morty’s eyes followed Rick’s long legs up to his chest, discovering that his bowtie and collar were undone.

Morty swallowed. Rick met his gaze lazily, smirking.

“So you’re M-Morty, huh? Th-think you’re a pretty good pianist, do y-y-you, Morty?”

“U-uh-uh, um, I—I, not really, I-I’m okay—”

Rick raised his eyebrows. Or eyebrow. Morty couldn’t tell.

“I-I-I mean, I’m pretty good, y-yeah, I guess, I-I’ve won some competitions and stuff—”

Rick rolled his eyes and took another swig from his flask. “J-jesus christ, kid, I-I don’t give a shit. Just g-get your pie—euuuurgh—pieces memorized before, before our first lesson. I won’t tolerate any pathetic stumbling from y-y-you.”

Morty hastily agreed to do so, and slipped out of the room before Rick could say any more. His face flushed with embarrassment as he slid down against the wall outside and buried his face in his hands. He couldn’t seem to lose the image of Rick stretched out lazily in the chair, collarbone exposed, gazing insolently at him. He felt himself hardening and groaned.

He was fucked.

 

 

[1]This is where most classical concerts happen in Manhattan. I'm assuming they don't live too far from the city.

[2]

  *   
[the second movement of chopin's second concerto.](https://youtu.be/qPWvWMil8N0?t=13m58s)



[3]

  *   
[this.](https://youtu.be/MsoUIBcl7iw?t=6m4s)



[4]Juilliard is probably the most well-known music school/conservatory in the US. Conservatories are basically universities that specialize solely in music. They often have prep programs for high schoolers that are held on weekends, and include normal lessons, ear training, music theory, chamber music, and performance opportunities. Both Juilliard's conservatory and precollege program are very difficult to get into, so Morty deserves to be proud of himself.

[5]Classical music concerts follow certain "rituals", so to speak. If there's a soloist playing with an orchestra, it goes like this: the concertmaster/mistress (first chair violinist) walks onstage, bows, and the audience claps. They then tune with the orchestra, during which the audience is quiet. Then the soloist walks on, followed by the conductor, who stays back a little so that the soloist can bask in the audience's attention. Clap clap clap. Then they all sit down and nod at each other and start playing. hoo-eee.

[6]

*   
[here's the whole thing.](https://youtu.be/PjeKA_ttPMU?t=33m37s)   

however, if you're not a big fan of classical and don't want to subject yourself to 40+ minutes of gradual buildups leading to places that you think are endings but aren't, check out the next endnote. won't lie though, it's one of my faves.

[7]

*   
[the finale. please listen!](https://youtu.be/PjeKA_ttPMU?t=1h10m35s)  



End file.
